Always and Forever
by Chuck's Prophet
Summary: Aragorn has doubts about his role as King. Legolas replenishes his faith in himself in an unsuspecting way. This piece could be viewed as slash or as a friendship in which two men simply find comfort in one another.


_Aragorn stood overlooking Gondor on his watchtower, smoldering ash garlanding the windswept kingdom. He clutched his hand tighter around the railing, warm liquid pooling in the palm of his hand, an attempt to ease to his distraught mind. That simple act, however, would not reimburse the debts of his people, and it would not deface the war which he waged upon his own nation. After all, 'twas not his soul that was lost in the wreckage or his blood encrusted on the fields. And 'twas not, certainly, his mind that was commandeering the fate of his empire as he knew it._

_He took a step further, and stretching his stature over the palace walls, extended his arms out to the sky..._

"Aragorn!" An elf's voice pierced through his musings sharply. He stirred awake, heart drumming madly against his ribcage. Batting his eyes open, he craned his head in the direction of the familiar voice.

"Oh, thank you, Ilúvatar," Legolas breathed, clasping his forehead to Aragorn's.

Aragorn sat up straighter, realizing then that his weary stature was slumped over a hemlock and his hand was bleeding profusely. Nimbly, he glanced around the vacant woodland. "What happened?"

Legolas chuckled, mostly to relinquish the anxiety in his system. "I was about to ask of you the same, _mallon_." He began hastily stripping a slim layer of his tunic underneath his cloak. To Aragorn's own surprise, hands were sleeker than the fabric used to swathe the cut; he nearly repented when he pulled away. Folding his calloused digits over the transparent bandage, he discovered that his fingernails were proportionate with the wound. He winced as Legolas grabbed a hold of his other, hauling him to his feet.

_It was merely a dream,_ he contemplated soundlessly.

Legolas stood in front of the human, flecked curiosity tickling his pastel features. "Did you have a nightmare, Aragorn?"

Aragorn was hesitant answering the query. He had had no problem in the past expressing himself to his longtime cohort, yet this problem derived from something much deeper than a small abrasion. Tucking a loose brown ringlet behind his ear, he heaved a sigh, "_Istan quetë ya merin, ar lá hanyuvatyen_." (I can say what I wish but you wouldn't understand.)

Legolas inclined his head to the side, as if to perceive the man clearer. He knew Aragorn's propensities better than anyone in Gondor; the heaviness flaccid under his nomadic eyes, the reluctance in his tone, the intermittent but distinguishable shifting of his weight—he was concealing something from him. He seized his hand hanging numbly at his side. "I won't understand if you chose not to confide to me."

Aragorn wrapped his own battered hand around Legolas's, interlacing his fingers with the slim ones that bounded his cold skin. "Legolas, I'm having doubts."

"With what, exactly?"

He slipped his hand out of Legolas's and strode forward a few steps to face the riverbed. The sun had seeped through a crevice of haze, illuminating his intent fixation on the water. "Serving as King," he said forlornly, "I thought I was an adequate ruler when I was crowned, but over the course of these last couple of months, I've had my doubts… and these incubi have grown increasingly fond of my reveries."

He glanced behind him when he hadn't heard anything after a few seconds. He recognized why when he saw a smarmy hand slither around Legolas's length—_an Orc_. When the figure took note of Aragorn's glower on the Elf, the knife in its possession turned with unnerving flexibility, gleaming with the anticipation of bloodshed as it pressed against Legolas's throat. Legolas stood before Aragorn, posture unwavering minus the slight tremor in his hand to grasp his sword.

"I am not seeking a fight," Aragorn said, one hand raised in wary defense, the other prepared to unsheathe his own sword.

The Orc hobbled forward, a toothless leer intersecting his foul face. "Unless you are pleasantly surprised to see me I would have suspected the same," it spat gravely, grappling the knife tighter.

In a haste endeavor, Legolas hard-pressed the Orc's appendage to lurch him forward onto his back, a blood-curdling scream escaping its mouth. Aragorn liberated his own blade and propelled his six-foot stature onto the Orc with excessive force. The Orc fought back, however, flinging his sword out of grasp. The Orc was strong, but Aragorn was stronger, managing to bash his head into the greensward enough times to render him comatose. Aragorn tumbled over the creature, lunging his hand far enough to grasp his blade again, the familiarity in his palm prickling his veins like thorns. In one swift move, he straddled the immortal, and drove the sword in a downward spiral, impaling it through his chest.

His eyes met the Elf's once he retracted the blade and wiped away fresh blood from his face. Legolas had had his arm slung back, bow and arrow stationary on the Orc now rooted into the earth.

Instead of orally expressing his gratitude, Legolas withdrew his weaponry and knelt before Aragorn. His frosty blue eyes regarded Aragorn's with a concoction of praise and wonder. He spoke the words with more integrity than any mortal he had ever known:

"_Le naa hîr vuin, illume ar tenn'oio._"

(You are my Lord, always and forever.)


End file.
